


In Pursuit of Perfection

by GnedTheGnome



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aquinea Thalrassian's A+ Parenting, Child Death, Child!Dorian, Dorian as a "Heartbreaking Gumdrop", Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, back story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-06-19 23:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15521523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GnedTheGnome/pseuds/GnedTheGnome
Summary: A detailed exploration of Dorian's back story, and how he became the man we meet in Inquisition.





	1. Pittypat and Tippytoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why the heir has no spare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But when comes this thought to me:  
> 'Some there are that childless be,'  
>  Stealing to their little beds,  
>  With a love I cannot speak,  
>  Tenderly I stroke their heads —  
>  Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.  
> God help those who do not know  
> A Pittypat or Tippytoe!"
> 
> ["Pittypat and Tippytoe,"](http://holyjoe.org/poetry/field16.htm) by Eugene Fields.

_Dorian, age 3. Pavus Estate, just outside Qarinus_

Dorian woke to the sound of footsteps and low voices in the hall. Crawling out from under the covers, he knelt on all fours, listening for a moment, then slithered off the side of his new big-boy bed. 

“Come, on, Ducky,” he whispered, plucking the wheeled, wooden duck, from his pillow, and tucking it under one arm. 

He padded, bare-foot, across the room—past the small toy box, and the over-filled bookcase, and the empty crib that used to be Dorian's, but was soon to be handed over to the new baby—and pressed his ear to the crack between the jamb and the partially-open door to the antechamber where Nanny slept, listening for her snores. 

Sometimes, when he woke late at night, after the fires were banked and the servants all in bed, he and Ducky would sneak past her narrow bed and explore the house on their own, poking around in all the guest rooms and closets and side parlors that he was not allowed to explore when everyone was awake. One night, he even dared to sneak into his father's study to run his fingers along the leather spines of rare magic books, and play with the baby dragon skull Magister Pavus kept on the credenza behind his desk. Dorian had been found by Magister Pavus himself, who was alerted to his son's skulduggery by the wards that Dorian had unwittingly tripped. It would be several years before Dorian would figure out how to bypass his father’s wards and make a second break-in attempt. He was curious, not stupid.

The little room where Nanny slept was dark and silent. He opened the door a little further and stuck his face through the gap, half expecting Nanny's cross voice, telling him to go back to bed. But her bed was empty, the covers carelessly tossed to the side, and the impression of her head still visible on the pillow. He heard more footsteps in the hall and the muffled voice of their housekeeper, Mrs. Boranehn, barking out orders to some member of the junior staff.

Once their footsteps faded away, Dorian opened the outer chamber door, squinting at the bright light from the oil lamps blazing up and down the corridor. A maid bustled by, carrying a stack of towels, and Dorian followed in her wake, clutching Ducky tightly to his chest, toward the T-intersection at the end of the hall. Turning left at this intersection took one to his mother's private chambers, and turning right led to his father's. As he approached this junction, he was very nearly run down by another maid, carrying a bundle of wet rags, stained a deep maroon, in the other direction.

"Oh! Master Dorian," the girl gasped, as she pulled up short, "You shouldn't be out here. Back to bed with you."

Dorian reluctantly turned back toward his room, dragging his feet dramatically, but was surprised when the girl neither acknowledged his protest, nor waited for him to obey, and instead hurried off toward the servants' stairs. He stopped, looked over his shoulder toward the intersection, then back toward his room. After brief consideration, he turned back around. Approaching the corner cautiously, he peered down the corridor toward his mother's chambers. 

Dorian’s caution was well advised, as it turned out, because there was Magister Pavus himself, up unusually late, pacing the width of the corridor in front of his wife’s door. Dorian nearly turned back, at that point, but Father’s attention was clearly on other things, and curiosity was always a demanding taskmaster. Halward Pavus quit his pacing and turned at the sound of his wife's door opening. Dorian thought he heard muffled crying, but the sound was cut off when the man who emerged quickly closed the door behind him. Dorian recognized him as a laetan healer, from the village. He had come up to the estate late in the evening on Satinalia, after their guests had returned home from the feast, and Mother had taken to her bed, complaining of indigestion. She hadn’t left her chambers in the weeks since, and Dorian wasn’t allowed to disturb her, but the healer had visited several times, and had always had a few kind words to spare for Dorian. 

At the end of the hall, the healer said something, his voice low and somber, and he shook his head. Magister Pavus’s shoulders slumped, for just a moment, before he pulled himself back up into the picture of composure—and there was something about that uncharacteristic break from perfect posture, however brief, that made Dorian’s blood go cold.

He hugged his toy a little tighter. “Don’t worry, Ducky,” he murmured. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

The two men turned in his direction, and Dorian ducked back around the corner, out of sight. He was relieved to hear only one pair of brisk footsteps coming down the hall. The laetan healer turned the corner, and Dorian flattened himself against the wall, hoping not to be noticed. The man stopped and smiled down at him.

“Well, hello, young man. You’re up late. Couldn’t sleep with all the noise?”

Dorian looked up at him, wide-eyed, and nodded. “Ducky was worried about Mother,” he said.

The healer smiled, though somehow his eyes still looked sad. “Well, Ducky doesn’t need to worry anymore,” he said. “Your mother is going to be fine. She’ll likely be up in a few days, and you’ll get to see her then.” He ruffled Dorian’s hair, then turned to see himself out.

Then Magister Pavus’s voice reached down the hall to grab his son by the ear. “Dorian.” 

Halward never yelled at him, nor raised a hand against him, but when he spoke there was a note of command that Dorian didn’t dare ignore. His shoulder hugged the wall as he turned the corner, and he held Ducky in a stranglehold.

Halward beckoned from the end of the hall with one hand. “Come here, son,” he said, quietly. He didn’t seem angry. He didn’t even seem disappointed in Dorian for being out of bed, when he knew he shouldn’t be. He just raised his other hand and beckoned again, with both. Dorian peeled himself away from the wall and approached his father uncertainly. Halward reached down and scooped him up into his arms. 

“Oh, my son,” Halward murmured into Dorian’s hair. There was an odd tension in his voice, and he was hugging Dorian so tightly that Ducky’s wheels dug painfully into Dorian’s ribs.“It’s all up to you, now, my boy. You’re the last hope for the Pavus line.”

He didn’t let go until Nanny appeared in Mother’s doorway, a minute later. Dorian was secretly relieved to be handed off and taken back to bed.

The next day the crib disappeared from Dorian’s room. Mother emerged from her chambers a week later to attend the annual fund raising ball for the Qarinus Sailors’ Widows and Orphans Fund, for which she acted as Chair.

No mention of babies was ever made again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to bluedotdenizen for creating the wonderful sketch of toddler!Dorian for me. :)
> 
>  
> 
> The title and opening quote of this chapter comes from a poem my mom used to recite for me when I was little.


	2. In Which Magister Pavus First Sees His Son's Potential

_Dorian Pavus, Age 5, Quarinus_

“Aquineus Thalrassian married Belva Trevellius...” Dorian recited in a bored monotone, as he looked longingly toward the sunshine streaming in through the nursery window.

“Trevelyan,” Nanny corrected, wandering over toward the window and glancing outside, herself. 

“Aquineus Thalrassian married Belva Trevel _yan_ ,” Dorian amended, “And they had three sons and six daughters: Acacius was my seven-times great-grandfather, then Cassiel and Lucas, Agrippina, Briony, Justina, Lucasta, Musetta, and… uh… Quarina? Quartilla!”

“Good,” Nanny murmured absently, staring down into the garden. Her focus sharpened, then she turned away “I will return shortly.” She gave him a stern look. “I want you to stay in this room until I get back.” She got out a slate board with writing lines painted on it, and a piece of chalk and handed them to Dorian. “Copy the names of all of Aquineus Thalrassian’s grandchildren, saying each letter aloud as you write it down. I expect you to be done by the time I get back.”

Dorian sighed dramatically and pulled the book of Thalrassian lineage closer. “P… A… X,” he said, as he slowly traced each letter with his finger and copied it onto the slate, while keeping one ear out for Nanny’s retreating footsteps. 

Once they faded away, he leapt to his feet and ran over to the window, climbing up on his toy box and leaning his elbows on the sill. He didn’t have to wait long before he saw Nanny walking briskly, with her head down, across the courtyard. Turning his head and leaning farther out, Dorian could see the gardener—the handsome one, Caesar, not Pio, who looked like a toad. Caesar spotted Nanny, as well, and immediately hid in the potting shed. Dorian once asked the man why he always hid in the potting shed, whenever he saw Nanny, and he had laughed and told him it was a game they liked to play.

“What game?” Dorian had asked.

“Hide the sausage,” Caesar said with a wink.

“Can I play?”

“Maybe when you’re older,” Caesar answered, laughing, then shooed him out of the garden, refusing to even explain the rules of the game.

Dorian was of the opinion that the potting shed was a stupid place to hide; it was the first place Nanny always looked. Sure enough, Nanny marched straight up to the door, looked around, then went in after Caesar. From past experience, he figured he probably had time to sneak downstairs and cajole a snack from Cook before coming back to finish his assignment. Nanny would never even miss him.

“Come on, Ducky,” he said, and headed out the door.

* * *

With a fistful of dried figs in each hand, and ducky flapping along on his leash behind him, Dorian wandered down the servant’s passage toward the back stairs. He preferred going this direction because Ducky’s wheels rolled so much better on the bare wood than they did on the carpets that ran down the family’s hallways. Besides, this way would take him past the little secret door that opened into the ballroom, discreetly hidden among the painted wall panels. He always liked to take a detour through the ballroom, whenever he got the chance, sneaking through the hidden door and pretending he was an assassin, taking out one of the Pavus family’s political rivals. Of course, assassination was trickier with one’s hands full of figs, so he paused to sit on one of the divans that surrounded the dance floor to finish his snack. As he sat, thoughtfully chewing a particularly tough fig, he looked up at the musician’s balcony and had the best idea ever.

The plan was perfect: he would jump from the musicians’ balcony, bounce from the chaise lounge, just below, to a nearby divan, and then somersault into a pile of pillows, on the other side. Ducky watched him from the safety of a divan on the other side of the room as he made his preparations. Once everything was in place, Dorian ran up the little spiral staircase to the balcony and climbed carefully over the wrought iron rail, using the decorative swirls of iron as rungs. He counted to three, took a breath, and jumped. 

He knew the moment his feet left the ground that he had misjudged his trajectory. His breath caught in his throat. Time seemed to slow. Terror filled his chest. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t. So he _PUSHED_. Pushed that tingling, burning ball of fear out of his chest and toward the rapidly approaching floor. And, for a moment, he thought he felt it push back, like an updraft, slowing his descent. He had just enough time to think how odd that was, before his shins hit the edge of the divan, followed shortly by his chin, as the piece of furniture skidded out from under him.

Dorian rolled up in a ball, swallowing down the howl that tried to push its way out his throat. It wouldn’t do to be caught in here. Nanny had told him, explicitly, to stay in the nursery, until she returned, and there was no sense in adding further punishment to his injuries. Besides, he didn’t want anyone to find out how spectacularly he had just failed. 

He let the tears run silently down his cheeks until, finally, the pain ebbed enough that he was able to take a deep, cleansing breath. He sat up and swiped at his eyes, then examined the big, purple bruises already forming on each of his shins. Little white curls of skin had been peeled from his legs, but there was very little blood. He poked at one bruise, then the other, sucking his teeth when the dull ache flared brighter. He prodded gently at his chin, noting that it didn’t feel bruised, then got to his feet, flexing each knee, and rotating each ankle. By some miracle, nothing seemed to be broken.

Once he was satisfied that he was relatively whole, Dorian’s mind went back to that curious sensation of the floor pushing back. He looked up at the balcony, and wondered if he could replicate the effect. Reluctant to jump off the balcony again—not until he had a better idea of what had happened, anyway—he looked around the room for something he could use to test his hypothesis, and his eyes fell on Ducky. He took Ducky to the center of the room and sat down cross-legged on the floor, setting the toy gently on the floor facing away from him. 

He squinted his eyes and concentrated, willing Ducky to roll across the floor away from him. Nothing happened. He wondered, briefly, if he had imagined the sensation, an artifact of his terror, perhaps. That sparked an idea, and he moved his focus out of his head, and down into his chest, trying to recreate that feeling of terror, that ball of energy that had grown inside him as he fell. His breath picked up, as he felt the tingle build behind his breast bone. When it reached the point that it grew uncomfortable, he _pushed_. Ducky took off, rolling across the wooden floorboards with a rhythmic clacking. Dorian nearly whooped, remembered himself just in time, and settled for a fiercely whispered, “Yes!”

He did it again, and several more times after that, then looked up speculatively at the balcony, once again. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He pushed both the chaise lounge and the divan well away from the balcony, and instead laid out a pile of cushions for his landing zone.

This time, as he leaned out over the void, still clinging to the balcony railing, he concentrated on building that sensation in his chest. When he felt it reach its peak, he jumped. The sensation of falling, and the wind whipping through his hair, were both terrifying and thrilling. Halfway down, he _pushed_. This time the feeling was unmistakable. He felt a moment of buoyancy before he landed amongst the cushions with a quiet, “oof!”

He giggled out loud, immediately jumped to his feet and rushed up the stairs to do it again. By the third and fourth time, Dorian had forgotten all about his earlier caution, and was laughing and whooping with delight. He was just about to make another leap, when the big doors on the other end of the ballroom swung open, and Magister Pavus came storming through.

“What is going on in here?” he demanded. Then his eyes grew wide when he spotted his son, leaning precariously away from the balcony. “Dorian! No!”

Startled, Dorian tried to stop, but his momentum was already moving forward, and his fingers slipped off the wrought iron behind him. For a second, he was so distracted that he almost forgot to catch himself, but at the last moment he remembered to _push_. At nearly the exact same instant, he felt something cool and tingly wash over him. It was almost like diving into water, and he came gently to rest on the cushions.

A second later, Dorian was being hauled roughly to his feet. His father crouched in front of him, gripping both of his arms, painfully tight, and gave him a hard shake.

“What do you think you were doing? You could have killed yourself!” he said. It was the closest Dorian had ever heard him come to yelling. “If I had walked in a fraction later…” Then he hugged Dorian tightly.

Confused, Dorian kept still and said nothing.

A moment later, his father pushed him away again, fingers once more digging into Dorian’s arms, as he looked around the room. “Where is your nanny?” he demanded. “She should be watching you.”

Dorian answered the way he had been taught: looking his father in the eye and enunciating clearly, “She’s in the potting shed, playing ‘hide the sausage’ with the handsome gardener.”

Halward’s eyebrows floated up, briefly, then he blew his breath out through his nose and shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. He gave Dorian a hard, appraising look. Letting go of Dorian’s arms, he carefully smoothed out the fabric where it had wrinkled in his grip, before placing his hands gently, but firmly, on Dorian’s shoulders. He continued to study his son, almost as if he had never really seen him before.

“Dorian. When you fell, I thought… did you cast a shield?” he finally asked.

“No,” Dorian said, denial coming to his lips automatically. Then, in answer to his father’s raised eyebrow, amended, “I don’t know.” When his father continued to look at him expectantly, he added, “I just… pushed.”

Halward studied him for a few more seconds, then stood, and took his son’s hand. “Come with me.”

Dorian practically had to run to keep up with his father’s stride as they left the ballroom and headed down the hall. They ran into Nanny, on the way, dashing down the stairs, looking frantic.

“Oh, thank the Maker!” she cried, when she spotted Dorian. Her eyes darted quickly toward Magister Pavus, before settling once again on Dorian. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Where have you been?”

“The real question, I believe,” Magister Pavus said, somehow managing to pull his spine even straighter than usual, “Is where have _you_ been?” 

“I, uh, took a quick trip to the privy, sir. I told him to stay in his room until I returned,” she said, her gaze rising to meet his briefly, before dropping again.

Magister Pavus raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? I wasn’t aware that we had a privy in the potting shed.”

Color rose in Nanny’s cheeks, and she bowed her head. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, I…”

“Go pack your belongings,” Magister Pavus said in quiet, measured tones that brooked no argument. “I can no longer trust you with the care of my son. Mrs. Boranehn will assign you a bed in the maids’ quarters, until we find a suitable position for you elsewhere.”

Nanny looked up in alarm. “Oh! Please, Sir. Please don’t sell my contract off.” she said, clutching at Magister Pavus’s sleeve. “I’ll work as a scullery maid, if I must, but please don’t send me away.” 

Magister Pavus glared at her hand until she released him, then headed up the stairs without a word, Dorian still in tow, trotting to keep up.

“Are you really going to sell Nanny to another family, Father?” Dorian asked.

“We’ll see,” his father answered, and Dorian expected that to be the only answer he would get. But, after a moment, his father sighed and continued, “Her actions were irresponsible, not malicious. But, I am afraid that, should I let her stay, in a reduced position, her anger will fester, and her actions might become malicious.”

“But, if you send her away… won’t you have to send away… the handsome gardener, too?” Dorian panted. “Or else maybe… maybe he’ll miss her and get angry… and be mal… malifious, too.”

“Malicious,” his father corrected, then made an amused noise and paused in his headlong flight down the hall, to look at his son once more. A smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Very observant of you. Yes, that is something else I will have to take into consideration.” 

They continued on, at a slightly slower pace. Dorian expected to be deposited in his room to await his punishment, but they continued on past, to the T-intersection at the end of the hall and turned right, toward his father’s private chambers. Dorian’s anxiety spiked when they stopped in front of Magister Pavus’s private study. Dorian had only been in there a handful of times, mostly when his behavior had been so egregious that Nanny felt the need to bring it directly to his father’s attention. 

Magister Pavus made a few gestures at the door, bypassing the wards, then pushed Dorian ahead of him into the room. Dorian stood on the rug in front of his father’s desk, where he had more than once stood to be dressed down, and kicked nervously at one of the tassels with the toe of his sandal.

“Don’t scuff the rug, Dorian,” his father admonished. “Sit.” He gestured at one of the Wingback chairs in front of the fireplace.

Dorian climbed up in the chair and folded his legs underneath him.

“Feet off the furniture. And sit up straight. A man’s self-worth is relayed through his posture.” 

Dorian perched on the edge of the chair, back straight, and drummed his heels against the legs, until his father gave him a _look_ , and he stilled.

Halward steepled his fingers, and considered Dorian from behind the other chair. “What you did earlier, Dorian, when you ‘pushed’, do you think you could do it again?”

Dorian nodded, unsure where they were going with this. “I pushed Ducky,” he supplied, deciding it was probably best not to admit how many times he had also jumped off the balcony.

“Indeed?” Magister Pavus moved to his desk, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a wooden box, roughly the size of one of the family’s genealogy tomes. He cleared off a rolling tea cart and pushed it between the two chairs. Sinking into the chair opposite his son, he set the box on the cart and opened it. Inside were two rows of metal balls, ranging from the size of a large marble to the size of a man’s fist. 

“Can you push this sphere toward me, like you did with your toy duck?” he asked, placing the smallest ball in front of Dorian.

Intuiting that this was a test, and a chance to earn his father’s regard, Dorian leaned forward and concentrated. When the tingling pulse of energy behind his breastbone became too intense, he _pushed_. The ball rolled across the cart and bounced off the edge of the box with a clack.

A smile flickered across Magister Pavus’s lips, and Dorian’s heart warmed with an answering flicker of pride. His father placed the next larger ball on the table. “Try it again.”

Dorian concentrated, determined to further impress him. The second ball rolled across the table and bounced off of the box, like the first one. 

“Remarkable,” Magister Pavus murmured.

He chose a ball several sizes larger and placed it on the table in front of Dorian. When they had worked through the largest ball, Magister Pavus gave his son an approving nod, then closed up the box and put it back in his desk. Next, he brought out a small bag of coins.

After pushing the tea cart back out of the way, he sat across from Dorian and said, “I’m going to toss this at you. I’d like you to try to keep it from touching you.”

Dorian nodded. He was starting to feel a little woozy, and there was a dull ache behind his eyes, but he wasn’t about to complain. He shifted in his chair and sat up a little straighter. His father lobbed the bag of coins at him, and Dorian _pushed_ it away. 

Magister Pavus caught it as it flew past his left shoulder. “Your reaction time is excellent, but you are wasting a great deal of mana, throwing your energy about chaotically like that.” He said. “Try pushing your mana out slowly, from the top of your head, and allowing it to flow down around you, like so.” 

Dorian watched him carefully, sensing more than seeing the flow of energy streaming out of and around his father. He tried his best to imitate it.

“Very good, now imagine that flow of energy thickening around you, becoming firm, but malleable.

Dorian pictured the flow of mana congealing around him, like the tomato aspic Mother always had Cook prepare for parties.

“Not bad. A bit… lumpy, and inconsistent, but you will get better with practice. Halward tossed the bag of coins at Dorian again, and smiled when it bounced back and landed at his feet. “There you go. You have just produced your first shield. And at only five years of age. Let Anaximander Vetri’s son try to beat that,” he said with a laugh.

Dorian grinned back at him, then toppled out of his chair as his vision went dark and he slid into the void.


	3. The Next Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's relationship with his father is changing.

**_Halward Pavus_**

Halward was taken by surprise when Dorian slumped to the side and slid off his chair. Of course, he knew immediately what had happened, and he mentally excoriated himself for pushing the boy too hard, and failing to warn him about the possibility of running out of mana. It occurred to him, just then, to wonder how much mana Dorian had used up in his own experimentations with magic, before Halward had arrived on the scene.

He was struck by how unexpectedly light the boy was when he scooped him up off the floor and cradled him against his shoulder. He rubbed a tentative hand up and down Dorian’s warm back and listened to his steady breathing for a moment. Dorian moaned softly and wrapped his arms around his father’s neck. 

Halward carried his son back to the nursery, threw the covers back on his bed, then carefully pried him loose and laid him on the mattress. He removed Dorian’s sandals and marveled at how tiny they were. After a little searching, he found Dorian’s night shirt tucked between two pillows, and spent several minutes getting his son’s limp, uncooperative body out of his play clothes, and into his sleep wear. Once that was accomplished, he tucked the boy between the sheets, and pulled the covers up to his chin. 

One of the servants, he noticed, had found Dorian's wooden duck, and had left it on the bedside table. Halward remembered buying the duck from a vendor in Minrathous the day he found out his wife was pregnant with their first child. He had seen it as he was passing through the public market on his way to the Magisterium, and had been unaccountably charmed by its bright yellow paint and little red wheels. He remembered, in that moment, for the first time in many years, having a similar toy when he was very young, and the pang of loss he’d felt when his younger brother had broken one of the wheels off, and Nanny had tossed it in the fire with the rubbish. 

Aquinea had been unimpressed when he showed the toy to her. “A pull toy? For an infant? Whatever were you thinking?” she had sniffed, her frown, as usual, conveyed through her voice, rather than being allowed to mark her face. “It will be years before our child will even be able to use it.”

Halward tucked the duck under the covers, next to his son. Dorian mumbled something incoherent, then turned over onto his side and pulled his ducky up under his chin and hugged it tight. 

In the privacy of the empty nursery, Halward allowed himself a soft smile. A sleeping child casts its own kind of magic, and Halward was not immune to it. Sometimes, late at night, when he was unable to go back to sleep, after waking from demon-haunted dreams, he would creep quietly into Dorian’s room, just to watch him sleep. Asleep, he was so sweet and angelic, so fragile and precious, it made Halward’s heart ache. It reminded him why he put in the hours he did at the Magisterium, to safeguard the family legacy that would one day be passed down to his son.

Awake, it had to be said, Dorian was another beast altogether. It’s not that the boy was bad, per se, he was just… difficult. He never sat still, and questioned everything. This afternoon was not the first time he had slipped away from his nanny, nor was it the first time he had endangered himself. Not a month ago, Halward had caught Dorian in his chambers, standing on a chair in front of the wash basin, covered head to toe in soap suds, ready to to take off an imaginary beard with Halward’s very real razor. 

And there were so many other, similar incidents. The boy never seemed to think about the consequences of his actions, he just ran with whatever absurd notion came to mind, and nothing Halward, or Aquinea, or Dorian’s nannies said or did ever seemed to get through to him.

The fact that Dorian was coming into his magic at such a young age, and with as much power as he had evinced earlier, was both a point of great pride and great worry for Halward. Such power needed to be carefully shaped and controlled. Dorian had to learn to use it responsibly, before he hurt himself or someone else. He needed discipline.

* * *

**  
_Dorian_  
**

Dorian was shaken awake the next morning by a frazzled-looking maid. His head hurt, and his stomach lurched at the vile smell that wafted from a steaming mug in her hand.

“’Morning, Master Dorian. Your father asked me to wake you. You’re to drink every drop of this,” she raised the mug, as if to toast, “Then get dressed and join him and your mother on the upper north terrace for breakfast.” She deposited the mug on his bedside table, then whisked around the room, throwing open all the shutters. The sudden light stabbed into Dorian’s eyes.

He squinted against the assault. “Breakfast? With Mother and Father?” He usually ate in the nursery with Nanny. But then, Nanny was no longer his nanny, he recalled. He wondered what the appropriate dress code for breakfast on the terrace was. “Do I have to wear formals?”

“Don’t be silly,” the girl chided. “But you are to wear going-to-town clothes, as Magister Pavus intends to take you with him into Qarinus today.” There was a thump on the door, and she pointed at the mug and made a drinking motion with her hand as she crossed the room to let the hall boy in with the washing up water.

Dorian picked up the mug and gave it a dubious sniff. “What is it?”

“Elf root and willow bark. For the headache. Now, drink up.”

Dorian sniffed it again and wrinkled his nose. “It stinks,” he declared, and put it back on the bedside table, shoving it as far away as he could.

The girl muttered something rude under her breath, then marched back across the room. She grabbed the mug and held it out forcefully at him. “Look, I’m not to leave until you’ve taken every drop, and I still have my own job to do today, so I’m in no mood to argue with you about it. You’ll drink it, or you’ll explain to your father why you won’t.”

Dorian reluctantly accepted the mug, held his breath, and took a big gulp. It tasted bitter and green, and he gagged dramatically after he swallowed. The maid was unimpressed, turning her back on him and crossing back across the room to his wardrobe to get out his clothes for the day. 

Annoyed that she refused to show him any sympathy, Dorian took his time, gagging and complaining, and making her nag him three more times before he finally finished it. 

"Come on, then. Let's get you washed up", she said, taking the empty mug from him and setting it aside.

"I need to pee," he said.

The maid sighed. "And what? Have you forgotten where the chamber pot is kept? Go on and pee, then. Hurry up."

Dorrian hopped down from the bed, and made a production of pulling the chamber pot out and carefully setting it down on the ground. He started to pull his nightshirt up, then paused. 

"Don't look," he said over his shoulder, not so much because he wanted privacy, as because he wanted to see how she would react.

The maid rolled her eyes, but turned her back on him, raising her hands in surrender. "Alright, I'm not looking!" she said, then more softly, "As if I haven't seen you running starkers down the hall, trying to avoid a bath." 

She busied herself filling the wash basin with rapidly cooling hot water, then waited impatiently for him to finish, wash cloth in hand. As soon as he finally presented himself for washing, she dragged his nightshirt up over his head. Dorian complained when the first button snagged his nose as she pulled it off. This didn’t get him any sympathy either. Instead, she got straight to work scrubbing him down with rough, efficient strokes. He made faces and tried to pull away, but she held him by the ear, and didn’t let up until every inch of him was scrubbed pink and his hair had been soaped and rinsed till it squeaked.

“Honestly, you’re worse than my little brother,” she complained as she held his chin and wiped the last traces of soapy water from his face. “And he's only three. There. All done. Now put on the outfit I laid on your bed. And no dawdling. Your parents are waiting for you.” With that, she picked up his empty mug, and the chamber pot, and strode out of the room.

* * *

“If his magic is as strong as you say, he should be sent to Carastes immediately,” Dorian’s mother was saying, as he approached the upper north terrace.

Sensing that the conversation was about him, Dorian paused to listen, peering around the door frame. His father was seated at the head of a long banquet table that stretched nearly half the length of the tiled terrace that overlooked the sea. Dorian’s mother sat at his left hand, her back to the ocean. A colorful cloth awning had been drawn over the terrace, protecting them from the sun, but the wind that blew off the Ventosus Straits ruffled Magister Pavus’s hair, and threatened to blow away anything that wasn’t weighted down. Somehow, Aquinea Thalrassian's hair managed to remain as stiffly immovable she was.

“He’s only five,” his father argued. “A Circle is no place for a boy that age. Perhaps it is different with girls, but teenage boys will run roughshod over anyone they perceive as weaker than they are. Besides, the boy needs to learn basic discipline before he is ready for school. What he really needs right now, besides a tutor, is a good nanny. I will have that slave dealer—what is his name? Barnabus? Barbula!—bring by some candidates so I can hold interviews before I leave for Minrathous again next week.” He took a sip of mango juice.

“Hmmm. Yes. Because we all know how well that worked out the last time,” Dorian’s mother said, peering over the rim of her wine goblet at her husband, one perfectly drawn eyebrow raised, before downing the remaining contents of the glass. She snapped her fingers at one of the attending servants. “Open another bottle of the Sauterne. The ‘01 if we still have it, or the ‘03. Not the ‘02. The weather was off that year, and the flavor is hollow and flabby. We’ll save those for that dreadful Laetan appreciation dinner the Archon’s wife strong-armed me into hosting,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s not as if they’ll know the difference anyway.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” The servant bowed and removed himself.

Magister Pavus set down his own glass. “It’s a bit early to be drinking, don’t you think?” he said, his face carefully neutral.

“Is it early?” Dorian’s mother raised her eyebrows in a show of innocence as she poured the remainder from the current bottle into her glass. “It feels as if it must be quite late, already. But then, time spent in your company does have that effect.” She smiled thinly, then took the tiniest nibble from her pastry.

Magister Pavus snorted, but otherwise didn’t respond to the jab. “If you feel I am incapable of choosing a nanny, perhaps, this time, you would like to handle the interviews yourself,” he suggested. "That is, if you can find a day when you are not too hungover to manage it.”

“If I drink too much, it is only because I’m driven to it.” Aquinea said. She took another pointed sip of her wine. “All I am saying is, this time be sure her qualifications are more impressive than the size of her breasts.”

Magister Pavus stabbed a piece of meat from a platter, put it on his plate, and attacked it with his knife. “May I remind you that you are the one who purchased the gardener who was also involved in this debacle?”

“Well, a little ornamentation in the garden is only to be expected,” Aquinea said with a barely perceptible shrug. “Besides, I had to do something to offset that weird little toad of a man you acquired. By the way, I had that one assigned to the kitchen gardens, so I don’t have to look at him.”

Magister Pavus pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Before he could respond, Dorian decided it was time to make himself known, hoping to distract his parents from their bickering before it devolved into a full-blown argument.

The storm clouds on his father’s face were instantly smoothed into a pleasant smile. “Ah, Dorian!” he called out. “I was just telling your mother about the shield you produced yesterday. She was very impressed.” He gestured at the open chair on his right. “Sit. Have some breakfast, and we will talk.”

Dorian climbed up on the chair, opposite his mother, kneeling as he leaned across the table for one of the sticky buns in a basket near her plate.

“Oh, don’t reach, Dorian,” his mother chided. “You’re not a grubby little Soporati urchin. Sit down properly and ask your father to pass the pecan rolls.”

Dorian reluctantly sat all the way down, the table now just below his chin and the contents of all the various plates and bowls of food on offer mostly indiscernible from this vantage. He took a roll from the basket his father offered him, then settled back in his chair with it, tearing off little pieces and popping them in his mouth. His mother gave him a disapproving look, but said no more. 

His father studied him as he poured some mango juice from a pitcher into a glass for Dorian. “How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.

“Alright,” Dorian answered. “My head doesn’t hurt so much, anymore.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Magister Pavus said. “Do you know why it hurt earlier? Why you lost consciousness yesterday afternoon?”

Dorian scrunched up his nose and thought about it. “Because… I did too much magic?”

“Correct,” his father said with a nod. “Every mage has a limited capacity for mana. Once you use it all up, you have to rest for a while before you can do any more magic. As you gain experience, you’ll learn ways to use your mana more efficiently, and be able to do more magic, for longer periods.”

“In addition,” his mother interjected, waving the butter knife at him, before taking a pat for her plate. “It takes a great deal of physical energy to do magic.”

Dorian nodded seriously, then decided to see how much of the sticky bun he could stuff in his cheeks at once.

“Yes,” his father agreed. “Do too much, and you will become exhausted. That is actually why you passed out. It was as if you had, say, tried to stay awake for two days straight. Eventually, the body runs out of reserves, and forces you to stop and rest. Again, as you get older you will build stamina through training, so that you can practice for longer.”

“Can you get more mana?” Dorian asked, around a mouthful of bread.

“Yes,” his father answered, leaning back in his chair, “From prepared mana potions, or amulets.”

“Or, blood magic,” his mother added. She said it in much the same way she might have said, “Dirty chamber pots.” 

“Or, blood magic,” Magister Pavus agreed with a frown, “But, that is a shortcut that is beneath you, Dorian. It is the last resort of a weak mind. You are far too intelligent, have too much natural ability for magic, to ever need to stoop to that level.”

Dorian felt a spark of pride at his father’s words. He swallowed the wad of soggy bread and voiced his agreement. “I’m going to be the best mage ever, _without_ blood magic.”

Magister Pavus’s eyes sparkled. “You may very well even be Archon one day. It will be hard work, but I believe in your abilities.” Dorian beamed at him. “Now, drink your juice, so we can go. I will be taking you into town to be measured for your first mages' robes, and to get a practice staff. You will be starting magic lessons with a tutor very soon.”

Dorian grabbed his glass, with both hand, so he wouldn’t spill, and chugged it down.

* * *

The courtyard was busy this morning, with a small retinue of guards preparing to escort them into town. Dorian’s favorite stable boy, Peter, waited for them at the foot of the stairs with Magister Pavus’s mount, and Dorian’s pony.

“Good morning, M’Lord. Master Dorian,” he greeted them with a polite nod for each.

“Guess what!” Dorian all but shouted, running down the stairs and skipping over to Peter’s side. “Father’s bringing me to Qarinus to get mages’ robes! And a staff!”

“Mages robes, _and_ a staff! How exciting!” Peter enthused along with him. “Won’t you look the proper gentleman when Livia comes to visit on First Day? She’ll be ever so impressed. Up you go.” He swung Dorian up in the air and onto his pony’s saddle with a, “Wheeee!”

Dorian giggled, then wrinkled his nose. “I don’t care what Livia thinks. She’s ugly and stupid.”

“Dorian!” Magister Pavus admonished. “That is your future wife you are talking about. Try to show a little civility.” He finished checking his mount’s billet straps and stirrups, then swung himself up onto the saddle.

Dorian crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “I’ve decided, I’m not going to marry Livia.”

“Of course you are. It was decided for you a long time ago,” his father answered, scanning the activity in the courtyard.

“No, I’m not. I’m going to marry Peter.”

Peter made a choking noise as he handed Dorian his reins, then ducked his head and focused hard on adjusting Dorian’s closest stirrup, the corners of his lips twitching.

Magister Pavus rolled his eyes and turned toward his son. “Don’t be silly, Dorian. You cannot marry Peter.”

“But, I like Peter. I don’t like boring old Livia,” Dorian insisted.

“We all like Peter,” Magister Pavus said, “But that doesn’t make him a suitable wife.” 

“Why not?” Dorian asked.

“Well, to start with, he’s a boy. You cannot marry a boy.”

“Why not?”

Magister Pavus sighed. “Because, it takes a boy and a girl to make a baby. Without babies you have no heirs to carry on the family legacy.”

Dorian thought for a moment. “But, Magister Septimus’s children all died, so he adopted new ones. Why can’t I marry Peter and then adopt an heir?”

“It’s not that simple, Dorian. Without the right marriage, you will forever be at a disadvantage in society. Your mother and I considered many things before arranging for your marriage, and we made the best possible choice for you. You will understand that when you are older.” He gestured at Peter, who had finished adjusting Dorian’s other stirrup and was staring at the ground, lips pressed tightly together, as he waited to hand over the lead line. “Peter is a nice boy, but he is not a mage, and he does not come from the right family.”

“But—”

“Enough. The matter is decided. No more arguments. Unless you would prefer to stay home today, and not get your new robes and staff until next time I am back from the capitol?” 

Dorian scowled, but decided the trip into town was worth more to him than proving his point. At least for now. He gave his father a reluctant nod.

That decided, Magister Pavus took Dorian’s lead line and turned away. The guards immediately fell into position around them and they all headed out the gate and down the road toward Qarinus.

They rode in silence for several minutes, until the effort of keeping silent grew too much for Dorian.

“But, what if I don’t love Livia?” he asked.

“You’ll learn to love her, in time.” 

“Do you love Mother?”

Magister Pavus was silent for a moment, before he answered. “Your mother is a beautiful and intelligent woman, and a skilled mage. Her family are powerful allies for House Pavus.”

“But, do you love her?” Dorian persisted.

Magister Pavus sighed again. “Dorian… the kind of love you’re imagining is the stuff of fairy tales. It doesn’t exist. I… respect your mother. She is a formidable woman, and an asset to the Pavus family. I am grateful for the son she has given me. I am grateful for the political backing she has always provided. She was the best possible match for me, and for our line. In any case, it would have been terribly selfish for me to refuse my parents wishes on the matter. Sometimes in life, Dorian, we have to accept responsibility and do things that, perhaps, would not be our first choice, for the greater good of the family. Do you understand?”

Dorian stared glumly at the back of his pony’s head. “I suppose,” he answered, though in truth he didn’t, really. It all seemed very unfair. “I guess I’ll try to be nicer to Livia, if I’m stuck with her. I’d still rather marry Peter.”

* * *

**  
_Halward_  
**

“Arms up, young man! Like you’re walking a high wire.”

Dorian held out his arms, and unnecessarily stood on tiptoe. Master Sartorius smiled and shook his head, then wrapped the tape measure around his chest.

“Twenty-four knuckles,” he said, and his apprentice, Cato, jotted the measurement down. “I’ll leave some extra fabric in the seams, so it can be taken out as he grows.” He glanced at Halward and chuckled. “The Maker knows, children have a way of suddenly sprouting up, just as soon as you make a new suit of clothes for them.”

Halward laughed politely. “Indeed, that does seem to be the way of it,” he agreed. In reality, Aquinea took care of the household ledgers, and Dorian's nanny had always supervised his fittings, so Halward had no idea how often Dorian outgrew his clothes.

“Now, I’m assuming he’ll need a set in Pavus blue,” Master Sartorius suggested, leading Halward and Dorian over to a rack full of fabric swatches clipped together by type, and hung on display. He grabbed a bundle of fine velvets and showed them a sample in a dark shade of peacock. 

Dorian grabbed Halward’s elbow, craning his neck and bouncing on his toes for a better look. He reached out to pet the soft fabric. Halward stifled a spark of irritation. “Please don’t hang on me, Dorian,” he said. Dorian pouted, then turned abruptly away to paw through the racks of fabric samples. Halward hoped the boy’s fingers weren’t still sticky from breakfast. 

He turned his attention back to the tailor. “Will you be able to complete the robes and have them delivered in time for First Day?” he asked.

“Assuming you don’t want extraordinarily ornate embroidery, certainly.” Master Sartorius answered, “Perhaps just some simple Aari work picked out in silver on the collar and cuffs, in a stylized peacock theme?”

“That sounds fine,” Halward answered. He hoped Aquinea wouldn’t make an issue out of it.

“Good. Write that down, Cato. Will he be needing Carastes Circle uniforms, as well?” Master Sartorius asked.

“No, not yet. His magic may be ready, but he is not; he needs time to mature.” He remembered being the youngest boy at Carastes, himself, when he started, at the age of ten. Even that year or two difference had made it difficult to fit in with the other boys. “We would like to hold off on sending him until he is at least eleven or twelve. He will be tutored, in the meantime.”

“Ah, then he will still need practice robes for staff work, yes?” Master Sartorius said, already reaching for another bundle of swatches. “I have just received this sturdy new waffle-weave fabric, from Vyrantium. I could have a set delivered by the end of next week.”

“Oooh! Look, Father!” Dorian shouted from across the room. “This one looks like starlight!” He held up a swatch of fine-woven linen in a rich, dark blue, shot through with silver threads that glittered subtly as it moved in the lamp light. “Can I have robes made of this? Please? Pleeeeease?” 

Master Sartorius smiled indulgently at Dorian. “What do you say, Father? He needs some summer weight robes, surely?” he said with a wink at Halward. “We could embroider the Pavus crest across the back,” he suggested, warming to his topic, “And maybe do some cutwork on the sleeves and collar, with a light blue silk backing for contrast? It could be ready in plenty of time for Summerday.”

Halward was about to agree, amused and impressed by the tailor’s ability to upsell, when a clamor of bells and shouting suddenly started outside. The men all looked to the door in alarm. Halward had left three of his guards out front, and he saw them move to block the entrance, pulling their weapons as one. The fourth guard positioned himself between Dorian and the door.

“What’s that noise?” Dorian asked, worry written across his face.

The tailor and his assistant looked at each other, then looked at Halward. Halward loosed his staff and automatically dropped into a fighting stance. His face was grim when he answered Dorian’s question.

“Qunari raid.”


End file.
